Footman or Soldier
by Laura JN
Summary: Thomas Barrow is a proud footman in service at Downton Abbey, however on a trip to the fair, his thoughts are drawn back to the war, in light of seeing a caped stranger beat down a band of thugs. Thomas' world is warped forever when he learns the truth about the man with piercing grey eyes.


Author's note: I apologise in advance for any historical inaccuracies, language that sounds too modern etc I've done the best I could without spending hours on research. Rated M because of some mature themes and sexual language. This probably won't be violent. I will give warnings as and when needed :)

This is set in the 1920's, before series 6 of Downton Abbey.

* * *

 _ **Footman or Soldier**_

 **Chapter 1**

 _ **Rescue**_

Along with summer came entertainment. For that particular day, Thomas had been given leave to enjoy the day's festivities in town, as the fair had come to the nearby village of Thirsk. His Lordship traditionally gave the servants the freedom to go to the fair if they wished, as the main family would be out all day and would not need attending to.

There were vibrant stalls with games for families, a carousel for those seeking more of a thrilling time, and plenty of exciting treats and trinkets to purchase. The footman fully intended to enjoy his day off, so he was exploring the attractions, taking in the atmosphere, when a group of raised, male voices caught his attention. Thinking that it could be part of the fair, he followed the voices through the crowds. He weaved in amongst the townsfolk, making his way across the fair. He slowed down when he realised the men were out of sight. With piqued curiosity, he continued onward, despite a strange feeling in his gut.

Thomas approached a tall carriage, and rounded the corner, coming face to face with a group of three brawny looking lads. They looked to be in their earlier twenties, but they were tall and wild looking. Before he could register what was happening, one of the lads grabbed him,

"What d'ya think you're doing? Sneaking around here like some sort'a copper?" A thuggish man probed, firmly gripping Thomas by the lapels of his coat. Before Thomas could think of a reply, another lad spoke up, "He must've 'eard us talkin'." He turned to look Thomas in the eye, "You 'eard us din'cha?" Thomas threw his hands up in defence,

"I didn't hear anything I swear. I only meant to find somewhere for a smoke." He half-lied. He had truly been unable to discern anything of what they had been saying, but he had come because he had heard the men speaking,

"We can't trust 'im though can we? He 'as no reason to keep 'is mouth shut now has 'e?" The third man interjected. His face twisted into a mocking grin, "Better to give him some motivation for 'is loyalty." The other lads began rolling up their sleeves. Thomas began struggling to break free of the man's grip, but the other men grabbed him from behind, one man covering his mouth with a clammy hand. Thomas was dragged away kicking and gasping for breath as the men laughed.

The thuggish men dragged Thomas to a more secluded part of the village, where they were sheltered from sight by trees. Deep shadows were cast about the men, providing him with little hope that they might be spotted. He struggled further as they pinned him up against a tree, all of them grinning at him. He knew without doubt that they were going to rob him, threaten him and probably beat him if he did not escape now. He looked around wildly for anything he could use: any way out of this horribly familiar situation. Nothing he offered them would help, as they would take everything from him all the same. When he could see no solution, and the men raised their fists, he could only close his eyes in response.

Just as Thomas began to shut his eyelids in defeat, a figure came seemingly out of nowhere: Fast, yet quiet, running at an incredible pace toward them. The figure whirled around in the air as they neared the men, giving them no time to move. The figure spun in the air, gaining momentum, until their foot connected heavily with one man's jaw. The man crashed backwards into the ground with such force, that chunks of earth flew up around him, before coating him in a fine layer of dirt. Before the other lads could react, the strange figure adjusted their movement, spinning forward into the man gripping Thomas. An elbow collided into the man's neck, sending him face down into the ground at Thomas' feet. Thomas flinched, reeling back against the tree, as the third man was knocked aside with another powerful kick.

Thomas could only stand there, as his brain desperately fought to understand what was happening. This lone figure, who he could now see was not a large person, had just knocked three, butch men into the cold, hard earth, without taking so much as one hit. They had moved so fast, that only seconds had passed since they had arrived. The stranger stood there for a moment, as if checking that the men were indeed unconscious. Thomas knew they would not be getting up again for a few hours, let alone the next few minutes. After a brief moment, the stranger turned to look at him. Thomas froze. He did not know what he had been expecting, but it was not this.

The man standing before him was a fair sight shorter than himself, and looked to be of a similar age: perhaps in his thirties. He had a mop of neatly trimmed, dark hair, framing piercing grey eyes. Perhaps the most striking thing about the man however, was his attire. He wore practical clothing, though white, with brown leather straps crossing his legs and chest. Over this was a jacket, and completing the odd look, a cape of the deepest forest green. While Thomas gaped at the man in confusion, the stranger began to approach him. When Thomas flinched, the man paused, eyeing him curiously,

"I didn't mean to interfere..." The man murmured low, only just audible above the noise coming from the fair, as if saying this to himself more than Thomas. The man looked torn for a moment, before standing to attention. He gestured some sort of salute with his fists, before fleeing at the same incredible pace with which he had arrived.

Thomas had to grip the tree behind him for support, or he feared he might collapse. _He had to get out of here._ What the devil had he just witnessed? It was like nothing he had ever seen. No man ran like that, with such precise, agile movements. No athlete ran with such purpose in such heavy clothing, whilst assessing the situation enough to know friend from foe. There was only one explanation that Thomas could think of, and he did not like the idea at all. He had fought in the war, albeit briefly, and he knew the terror that it was to be on the front lines. Thomas shuddered, as he began to step away from the men scattered about him, all with their faces void of expression. All he could think of was the possibility that specialist soldiers were being trained for something new: To become weapons themselves, On English soil.

When Thomas returned to the fair at last, he inhaled deeply, before plastering a smile onto his face. He had no wish to be associated with the scene behind him, and so he strode with his chin held high, straight to the nearest attraction. He absent-mindedly explored a hall of mirrors, whilst trying not to think about the man in the cape. There had been something about him that would not allow the footman to think of anything else: Everything from the way he had moved, to the expression on his face when he had seen Thomas flinch. The images were all flashing through his mind, faster still with each mirror that he passed, until he thought for one heart-stopping moment that he saw the stranger instead of his own reflection. He felt a chill creep its way down his spine before he finally reached the exit.

Thomas gulped in the fresh air, before hastily retreating to find a bench. He needed to calm down and collect his thoughts, not try to distract himself with silly fairground attractions. Upon finding a bench, he sat down and instantly reclined, drawing in air as slowly as he could manage. Only a minute had passed: One moment he had thought he was going to be robbed and beaten, and the next he was surrounded by unconscious men. He had feared for his life when the stranger had turned to face him, but one look had been enough for him to know: Whoever that stranger was; he had had no intention of harming anyone. Assaulting the thuggish men had been instinctive; natural for him. Saving Thomas was incidental. The man had said so himself, that he had not meant to interfere. Thomas felt cold at the memory, knowing what he had seen in the man's eyes: as if defeating an enemy was more important than rescuing a victim. Thomas knew that look. It was the reason he had injured himself, in order to escape the war. He had returned to help the injured: to stay away from the fight.

Finally having calmed himself a little, Thomas stood. He needed to return to Downton, and the comfort of familiar surroundings. As he began walking, his mind returned once more to the war. He had barely tasted the reality of the battlefield, but that stranger had the worldly look about him of someone who knew a suffering beyond the pain of injury; beyond the fear of death. Thomas recalled the man he had tried to comfort, who had been blinded by an explosion. He had taken his own life in the end. _The worst wounds were deeper than what they appeared to be on the surface._

With that sobering thought, Thomas resolved to stay out of trouble. He needed to focus on moving forward, but no one forgets war. It stayed with him like a ghost leering over his shoulder, only showing itself when all else was quiet. The stranger had looked as if he had an army ghosts of that nature, all waiting for him to sleep.


End file.
